


Strategic Q

by earlybloomingparentheses



Series: The Sibilant Series [8]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: (Bloodplay as a result of knifeplay), (Knifeplay doesn't happen to Q), Cock Warming, Come Eating, Exhibitionism, Kneeling, M/M, Minor Knifeplay, Relationship Development, Semi-Public Sex, Sex as part of a mission, Sugar daddy situation, Voyeurism, minor Bloodplay, not quite a foursome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26433811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: Bond’s gaze is assessing, but he keeps quiet. Not like M, who hemmed and hawed for three days over sending Q into the field and only agreed when Bond, finally tiring of the delay, told him that Q was precisely the kind of skinny pretty prep-school prick that Ludovic Jaggi loves to have draped around his mansion while he drinks too much and talks too freely about his powerful friends’ secret bank accounts and smuggling connections and election-rigging, and unless M could supply a 00 agent with a showgirl’s eyelashes and a schoolboy’s arse, Bond was taking Q with him before Jaggi’s information got so out of date it started to rot.Q pretends to be Bond's devoted young lover on a mission. Well. "Pretends" might be going a bit too far.
Relationships: James Bond/Q, OMC/OMC
Series: The Sibilant Series [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/371081
Comments: 12
Kudos: 145





	Strategic Q

**Author's Note:**

> Here we have, I suppose, some character development. When I started this series I really meant it just to be a place to write some unrealistic smut heavy on the power play and light on the feelings. It's still light on feelings, strictly speaking (and heavy on the power play), but, like Bond and Q, I am somewhat bewildered to find that the two of them are developing some kind of actual relationship, however unconventional and unromantic, which may feel a little uncomfortable for those of you who'd (understandably) rather have the smut without thinking through the ramifications of their not-very-healthy interactions. Anyway, just a heads up, I guess?
> 
> Also! Quick warning for some minor knifeplay between two OMCs, resulting in a little bit of blood that gets licked up by one of the OMCs. You could skip it if you wanted--just don't read the scene at the breakfast table.

Green fields, rocky hills, thick forests; Bond’s hands, Bond’s neck, Bond’s steel-blue eyes. The landscape outside the train and inside. Q watches them both.

Bond looks at him occasionally, from where he is sprawled on the lower bunk of their sleeper car. Q is sitting by the window, ignoring his laptop in favor of observing the scenery. Bond’s gaze is assessing, but he keeps quiet. Not like M, who hemmed and hawed for three days over sending Q into the field and only agreed when Bond, finally tiring of the delay, told him that Q was precisely the kind of skinny pretty prep-school prick that Ludovic Jaggi loves to have draped around his mansion while he drinks too much and talks too freely about his powerful friends’ secret bank accounts and smuggling connections and election-rigging, and unless M could supply a 00 agent with a showgirl’s eyelashes and a schoolboy’s arse, Bond was taking Q with him before Jaggi’s information got so out of date it started to rot. M had blinked, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline and mouth twitching, and finally shrugged a shoulder and looked at Q.

“Well?” he’d asked. “Are you comfortable with this?”

_With risking my life or with being ogled by a fifty-year-old lush with roving hands?_ Q almost replied, but didn’t, which was possibly due to the peculiar hot flush up the back of his neck that was half humiliation, half absurd pleasure. He thought it possible that Bond had just given him a compliment.

“I’ll be fine,” Q had said. “Jaggi’s slimy, but he’s not violent. And I trust 007.” But he’d paused then, something occurring to him. “I do have one condition, however.”

“Yes?”

“No planes.”

So here they are now, nearing the end of a full night and day’s journey from London to the Polish countryside, where Ludovic Jaggi lives an hour or so from Krakow with his many valuable possessions: his multistory mansion, his palatial swimming pool, a vast array of sensitive information wheedled and bullied out of various wealthy European lowlifes, and a beautiful doe-eyed twenty-three-year old named François. Jaggi is of Swiss extraction, more or less, but has spent time in Germany, Austria, England, Luxembourg, and the Ukraine, until each nation caught wise to his schemes and he had to move on. He currently has information, or so MI6 believes, on a money laundering operation that has been irritating them, like a persistent gnat, for too long now for them to ignore. For once, Bond is being sent in more as a precision instrument than a blunt weapon; he is meant to ingratiate himself with stories of violence and sex and extract the relevant details from Jaggi. Q isn’t quite sure just how much M has inferred from Bond’s choice of Q as a companion. From what Q understands, Jaggi enjoys a very intimate relationship with the young François, one he makes no effort to conceal amongst the international set who visit him, though he is more discreet when it comes to Polish law enforcement. Jaggi also enjoys when his friends enjoy the young François, in one way or another. “Bring somebody for yourself,” he’d instructed Bond; Bond, whose other choices were a hired escort or a much-too-imposing 00 who’d surely grate at getting on their knees for a colleague, asked Q to come along.

“It’ll be fun,” he’d said, a gleam in his eye. “You can play empty-headed and utterly devoted to me for the weekend. And if you have any trouble keeping up the pretense, I’ll fuck you till you can’t string two words together. Probably in front of Ludovic Jaggi.”

Q glances at him now, laid out like a big cat on the flimsy bed of the sleeper car.

“Your first time in the field, and your mission is my sexual gratification,” Bond says. A twist of his lips bespeaks amusement, but also a cold kind of lust. “Seems about what you can handle.”

Jaggi’s mansion is big and blocky, with regular rectangular windows and a red-tiled roof. They’re helped out of the car he’d sent to the station by a surprisingly plain-looking Polish woman who, though very polite, looks them over with a glimmer of calculation, summing them up, Q has no doubt, quickly and accurately. She defers to Bond when she speaks, not ignoring Q so much as treating him as one might treat a child or beloved pet: someone with needs, but obviously not the person in charge.

“Mr. Jaggi has asked me to inform you that dinner will be ready in about an hour,” she says in a slightly accented voice. “You are welcome to settle into your rooms and refresh yourselves after your long journey.” She opens the front door, beckoning them inside.

The entrance hall is high-ceilinged and spacious, with a vast modern rug spread across the stone floor and a double staircase flanking a big open doorway. A chandelier—gaudy and electric—hangs from the ceiling. Massive arrays of bright flowers protrude from several large urns. It is clear that Jaggi has made many changes to the centuries-old building, some of them more tasteful than others, but all of them expensive.

“James!”

Q looks away from the painting he has been inspecting—an abstract blur of blacks and reds—to see the man himself emerging from a doorway atop the twin staircases. Ludovic Jaggi is a big man, tall and broad and somewhat corpulent, with bushy grey eyebrows and a head of dyed-black hair. He is in his mid-fifties, dressed in an expensive suit and sporting several chunky gold rings on his fingers. The pouches under his eyes speak to years of drink and debauchery, but he could hardly be called ugly. There’s a certain charismatic charm to his broad smile, his roving gaze, the affected tilt of his head.

“So glad you finally made it.”

His accent is unplaceable after so many years moving from one European country to the next. He walks down the stairs, hand gliding down the ornate banister, making an entrance.

“Ludovic,” says Bond. He shakes the man’s hand as the Polish housekeeper discreetly takes their bags and leaves the room. “Glad my schedule freed up enough for me to finally come visit.”

“I can’t believe it’s only for the weekend. You should have stayed longer! Well, we will take care of you while you are here. You and…” His gaze shifts to Q.

“This is Quentin,” Bond lies. Q puts out his hand to shake.

“Thank you so much for your hospitality, Mr. Jaggi,” he says. Jaggi clasps Q’s hand in both of his own, squeezing for several seconds with a moist, enveloping grip.

“Oh, he’s charming,” Jaggi says to Bond, eyes traveling up and down Q’s body. “Wherever did you pick him up?”

“A park bench,” says Bond with a twist of a smile.

“Ludi!”

A lilting voice calls out from a nearby room, followed by the figure of an extremely pretty boy who leans petulantly against the doorframe.

“You didn’t tell me they were here.”

Jaggi stretches out an arm. “Come here, bunny, and I’ll introduce you.”

The young man flits to Jaggi’s side. His hair is a mass of just-too-long golden curls that flop over his blue eyes; his tight white trousers and clinging periwinkle shirt leave little to the imagination. Jaggi pulls him in, and he leans his head on the older man’s shoulder.

“This is François,” Jaggi says. “François, say hello to Mr. Bond.”

“Hello, Mr. Bond.” François smiles at Bond sweetly. “Charmed to meet you.”

Q watches with veiled incredulity as Bond reaches out and takes François’ hand, then bends to kiss it. He has to repress a snort.

“Charmed to meet you too, François.”

François blushes scarlet, all the way to the tips of his ears. Q wonders, rather impressed, if he can do that on command.

“Oh, we’re all going to have a very nice weekend together,” Jaggi says with a satisfied smirk. “Come. I’ll show you to your rooms, and then we will have dinner together.”

Dinner is roast beef tenderloin in a port wine sauce that Q would happily marry. He watches François subtly for cues as to how to act towards Bond. François fades less into the background than Q had expected, chattering about his day and peppering Jaggi with little touches on his elbow and wrist. Jaggi is indulgent, even fond. Q adjusts accordingly, nudging his chair closer to Bond’s and smiling shyly whenever he is addressed.

“You and François will have to swim together while you are here,” Jaggi says to him. “I have a beautiful pool, and François loves to swim laps in the mornings. I am sure he would enjoy your company.”

Q nods, then remembers to flick his gaze questioningly in Bond’s direction. Bond puts a hand on Q’s back.

“I’m sure Quentin would be happy to join him,” Bond says.

“And we old men can sit and watch,” Jaggi adds with a sly smile.

After dinner, they retire to the sitting room with glasses of brandy. Jaggi sits in a plush red armchair and François, without hesitation, sinks down to the floor next to him, sitting at his feet.

Q feels Bond’s fingers press into his back. Bond chooses an armchair near Jaggi’s and Q, stomach suddenly fluttering, lowers himself to the carpet.

Jaggi runs his hand through François’ messy curls.

“So,” he says to Bond, “tell me about your latest exploits.”

Bond and Jaggi talk. Apparently this is the time for François to be quiet; he sips his brandy and plays with the hem of Jaggi’s trousers and from time to time inserts a gasp or a giggle into the conversation. Q listens carefully while resting his head against Bond’s knee. Bond relates stories from missions too old to involve sensitive information, playing up the gunfights and car chases, offering Jaggi vicarious excitement and the occasional hint that he is relating secrets he isn’t supposed to tell. Jaggi drinks liberally and grows more voluble as he does, dropping names of the wealthy and influential people who have supposedly confided in him over the years. Q hears one or two names that MI6 has connected with the counterfeiting operation, but Bond shows no sign that he is any more interested in these than the others.

After an hour or so, Q’s legs are aching and the faint excitement he’d felt at sitting at Bond’s feet has turned to annoyance. Only Bond’s intermittent hand on his head, stroking warningly over his hair, keeps his body interested in the situation.

François, however, starts to shift and fidget, changing position and sighing and then moving again. Finally, Jaggi looks down at him and makes a tutting noise.

“Poor bunny,” he says. His voice is thick with alcohol, but he isn’t slurring his speech; Q guesses he’s very practiced in indulging just the right amount to get his guests talking without losing control of his own faculties. It’s a talent particular to con men and blackmailers. “Poor little bunny, getting so impatient. Should we send you off to bed?”

François shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to go without you.”

His French accent is very winning, Q thinks. It’s probably even real.

“Well, Mr. Bond and I aren’t quite finished talking yet, my dear. Would you like something to occupy you?”

François nods.

Jaggi looks at Bond. “You don’t mind, do you? You’re welcome to indulge yourself if you like.”

Bond smiles. “By all means.”

François moves eagerly towards Jaggi, settling himself between the man’s knees. Understanding jolts through Q just before Jaggi reaches down and undoes his trousers, adjusting himself with a grunt as he takes out his cock and lets it hang, pink and soft, in front of his young lover. With a sigh of satisfaction, François takes Jaggi’s prick into his mouth, slowly letting it sink in deeper and deeper, then closes his lips around it with a gentle, quiet sucking.

“Quentin,” says Bond, and it takes Q a second before realizing Bond means him. His gaze flashes up to Jaggi, who, looking like the cat who got the cream, smiles smugly at Q. An unexpected wave of bashfulness washes through Q. He looks down, quickly, then turns himself to face Bond.

Bond spreads his knees and raises his eyebrows. Q reaches out and unbuttons Bond’s trousers, pulling out his prick. He swallows, face hot—he can feel Jaggi’s avid eyes on him—and ducks his head to swallow down Bond’s cock.

Bond makes a small but purposeful movement as he sinks into Q, hitting the back of Q’s throat. Q gags, gasping for air.

“We’re still learning,” Bond says over Q’s head. “He’s got a very delicate throat.”

“He looks like he does,” says Jaggi.

Q is getting hard. He gets his breathing under control and opens deeper for Bond’s cock, breathing in and out steadily through his nose.

“That’s good,” says Bond.

Q swallows carefully. He lets his tongue rest against the underside of Bond’s prick, occasionally sucking enough to stop his saliva from spilling out, but mostly just resting there. Keeping Bond’s cock warm.

“A little bird told me you recently obtained a Modigliani,” Bond says above Q.

“Oh, yes,” says Jaggi, “you must see it while I’m here.”

“Impressive,” says Bond. “Not many are privately owned, are they?”

“No. It helps to have friends in the right places.”

The conversation continues as Q, quite hard himself, rests Bond’s slowly hardening cock in his open mouth.

In the morning, they swim. Or Q and François swim, while Bond and Jaggi lounge beside the sparkling indoor pool and drink bellinis as their eyes rove over their nearly naked lovers. François’ swimsuit clearly shows the outline of his cock beneath its slick red surface. Q, who had brought what he thought was an appropriately revealing bathing suit, had been presented by Bond that morning with a smirk and a piece of fabric about the size of a handkerchief which he made Q struggle into while he watched.

François swims as lithely and naturally as a fish, long legs kicking gracefully behind him, somersaulting underwater as he pushes off the side of the pool when he finishes each lap. Q, who has not swum in years, makes use of what he remembers from his brief gym phase and tries to keep up while still looking alluring. It helps to know, when he is struggling, that Bond is drinking a cocktail about five times sweeter than he likes.

François emerges from the water dripping like some forest sprite. Q notices that both Jaggi and Bond are watching him intently, and then notices that he himself is watching François intently too. To his surprise, the boy turns and gestures for Q to join him.

“You were overextending your shoulders,” he says in his charming French accent. “They will be sore later if you do not take care of them. Here. Sit.”

He places his hands on Q’s shoulder and squeezes. Immediately, Q’s muscle twinges, then relaxes in relief as François begins to massage him.

“Will your Mr. Bond be jealous of me touching you?” he murmurs into Q’s ear.

“No,” Q replies quietly, leaning into the pressure of François’ hands. “No, it’s all right.”

“Pity,” says François with the ghost of a smile in his voice. “It’s really very nice when Ludi gets jealous of me.”

Indeed, when they finish, Jaggi can’t seem to keep his hands off François’ damp skin. “Listen,” he says to Bond, “we have several things we can do today. There is a very nice walk, around the estate and into the woods. My guests often take advantage of the fresh air when the weather allows. I can show you my most recent art acquisitions. Or…”

He lets the silence hang meaningfully in the air.

Q knows perfectly well which is the option most likely to put Jaggi in a sharing mood. Bond says, “Or…?”

“I’d love to see what this pretty young thing can do,” Jaggi says, reaching out to touch Q’s bare arm with one big hand. “That is, if you’d like to show me.”

“Oh, yes,” says Bond. “I’d like to show you.”

Q isn’t sure what is going to happen: whether Jaggi wants to fuck him or just watch Bond do it. He tries to keep his breathing steady as he follows the men down a long corridor, wrapped in a towel, still in bare feet. It is a very peculiar experience. The whole weekend is steeped in hedonistic luxury, in excess, in sensual indulgence; but Q is aware that, although he has nothing to do but obey, he is still on the job. He wonders if Bond feels like that when he fucks for queen and country: does he let himself go, or is part of him always removed and calculating?

And then there is the strangeness of Jaggi’s almost overdone concern for François, his fussing and caressing; Q had been anticipating much more of what he and Bond usually do, sharp commands and expectations of submission. It’s odd to feel Bond touch him with gentle fingers, not quite right—not quite what Q likes, but an interesting sensation in this context, as if they are conspirators, as if they are both playing a new game that they both know will only last so long.

The room they enter is full of plush sofas and ottomans, pillows and draped curtains that reach all the way to the floor. There is a fire lit in the fireplace, though the weather is barely cool enough to justify it. In front of the fire is a thick fur rug, soft and brown. Jaggi shuts the door behind them.

“Come, bunny,” he says to François. “Let’s get comfortable and give these men our attention.”

François parts the opening of Jaggi’s robe, running his hands down the thick hair on Jaggi’s chest and belly and untying the robe so it gapes open, revealing Jaggi’s paunch and heavy cock, nestled between his thighs. Jaggi leads him to a velvet sofa, where he shimmies out of his swim trunks and drapes himself naked in his lover’s lap. His eyes, like Jaggi’s, rest hungrily on Bond and Q as he does so.

“On your knees, Quentin.”

Only intimate knowledge of Bond allows Q to hear the tiny note of steel in Bond’s otherwise indulgent voice. He ducks his head, pretending shyness, and sinks slowly to the floor.

Bond strides over to an ornate armchair and takes a seat. “Come to me.”

Q breathes through his nose and gazes down at the floor, his hesitation not entirely for show anymore. There is something about crawling that lodges itself in his throat, fights his body’s attempts to move. He swallows, then starts across the floor, bare knees squeaking on the wood.

A noise of satisfaction from the sofa: Jaggi. Q crawls to Bond, sitting back on his haunches when he reaches him, stopping at Bond’s bent knees.

Bond grasps Q’s chin in one hand. Q inhales reflexively, body ready for oxygen deprivation, but instead Bond pulls him in for a wet, deep kiss.

“You ready to show them how long you can go?” he murmurs, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Yes,” Q says softly.

“Good boy.”

Bond gets out his cock, gets Q’s swimsuit off him, gets the lube—“In the drawer to your right,” Jaggi says thickly—and gives Q’s arsehole a cursory swipe. He slathers his own cock, then positions Q where he wants him, facing Bond, straddling Bond’s legs. And Q sinks down till Bond’s cock is so far in him he can feel it in his teeth.

“You going to ride me, baby?” Bond says.

Q ignores the cloying pet name and focuses on Bond’s cock, on the sensation of three pairs of eyes watching and waiting. He lifts himself up, then lowers himself down.

“That’s good,” says Bond. “Show them how long you can go.”

Q goes for a long time. His legs ache as they move him up and down Bond’s cock. He puts his hands on Bond’s shoulders for support, sweating, short of breath. His own prick is leaking, straight as a rod and proudly on display. All of him is on display. Jaggi makes noises as Q rides Bond, grunts of satisfaction, approving little clucks. _I wonder if M knew this was what was going to happen this weekend_ , Q thinks, and for a moment feels triply exposed, to Bond, to Jaggi and François, to the head of MI6. His arsehole burns, tingles, stretched and strained. He is breathing harder now, heart pounding with exertion.

François starts to whine a little every time Q’s arse comes down onto Bond’s lap. “Please,” he says to Jaggi, “I’m so empty, Ludi. I want you.”

“This is Quentin’s time, bunny,” says Jaggi. His robe is wide open, showing off hairy legs and a thick hard cock. “Can’t you be patient?”

“It’s hard, Ludi. It’s so hard.”

“Poor boy,” Jaggi says sympathetically, not taking his eyes off Q. “Do you need it that badly?”

“Yes. Please. I need it.”

“Go ahead, then.”

Q watches in his peripheral vision as François scrambles eagerly to slick himself and his lover up and then positions himself facing away from Jaggi, crouching over his lap with a good view of Q and Bond. He sinks down onto Jaggi’s cock with a cry of relief, and as he starts to fuck himself on it, both men continue to watch Q struggle.

His legs are shaking with the effort. He grits his teeth, refusing to give in.

“Such discipline,” he hears Jaggi say. “Françie, do you see how disciplined Quentin is?”

François lets out a little cry. “I try,” he says plaintively. “I try, Ludi.”

“Oh, bunny,” Jaggi says, stroking François’ side, “I know you do.”

If Bond and Q were alone, Bond would make Q go till he collapsed, till his muscles gave out, and then he’d throw Q on his knees and fuck him till Q wept. Here, with Ludi and Françie cooing over each other, Q knows Bond won’t, can’t, take things that far. He grits his teeth with annoyance and for a second his eyes meet Bond’s. A spark of acknowledgement passes between them: _this is all we get._

“You can come now, baby,” Bond says, putting his hand on Q’s aching cock. “Come into my lap.”

He strokes Q. Q lets out a half-pretend sob of relief. Arousal shoots into his neglected prick, urgent need moving from arsehole to cock, and Bond pulls him off with a few deft twists of the wrist. Q spills over Bond’s shirtfront, his come trickling down onto Bond’s trousers as he gasps for breath.

Jaggi moans loudly and, eyes still on Bond and Q, starts to come into François’ arse. François cries out, high pitched and startled, rocking himself back to press Jaggi deeper inside him as Jaggi’s legs spasm.

In the end, only Bond doesn’t come. “I prefer to do it sparingly,” he explains to Jaggi, zipping up his trousers over his still hard prick. “The longer I wait, the better it is.”

“Both of you,” Jaggi murmurs, stroking François’ trembling chest, “so disciplined.”

After a lazy afternoon and evening, Bond and Q retire to their rooms. They have been assigned a bathroom, a sitting room, and a spacious bedroom with a heavy wooden-framed bed. Q collapses onto it fully clothed, exhausted.

“You’re doing well,” Bond says. He is stripping methodically, changing into the grey boxers and t-shirt he sleeps in.

Q’s eyes flutter open. “Yeah?”

“Jaggi’s very enamored of you.”

“You think it’s working?”

Bond goes to the bathroom and starts running the water. “I’d say there’s a good chance I’ll get him to open up tomorrow. Especially if we get him nice and relaxed again in the morning. And inebriated, preferably.”

He comes out with a toothbrush stuck in his mouth. Q watches from his place on the bed. He’s interacted with Bond on many missions via headsets and cameras, but he hasn’t been there in person before. He was expecting Bond to get more intense, more distant and cold, but instead he seems more present. More comfortable in his skin. Granted, this is hardly Bond’s usual cocktail of bloodshed and intrigue—he is in fact trying to seem at ease for once—but Q thinks that even now, out of their target’s sight, he’s more like a person than he usually is. Q’s never seen him brush his teeth before.

“You want me to have a go at François tomorrow?”

Bond smirks through the toothpaste. Q rolls his eyes.

“I mean talk to him. See if he knows anything useful about the counterfeit operation.”

Bond goes back to the bathroom and spits. “Yeah,” he says. “You think you can handle it?”

Q wonders if he should be insulted by the question. “Yes.”

“Good.” Bond stands over him, looking down. “Can you get your shoes off by yourself, or do I need to help?”

Q sighs and drags himself upright. “This is exhausting work.”

Bond snorts. “You can take a hell of a lot more than this.”

Q cracks a grin. “I guess that’s fair enough.”

The next morning, Q and Bond walk into the dining room for breakfast to find François on Jaggi’s lap, nuzzling his neck and whimpering as Jaggi strokes his cock, which is sticking out from between the folds of his silk robe.

“Hello,” says Jaggi, not slowing his pace. “Apologies. Sometimes Françie gets so agitated in the mornings. Can’t even wait for me to finish my coffee. So we take care of it, don’t we, bunny?”

François nods, still whimpering.

“Please, sit,” Jaggi says. “Help yourselves.”

Bond and Q take their seats. Q watches Jaggi and François for a moment, mildly aroused though hungry enough to ignore it, and reflects on the peculiarity of the similarities and differences between those two men and him and Bond. Bond wouldn’t hesitate to jerk Q off at the breakfast table in front of company. But he would be sharp about it, brisk and disdainful; he would say disparaging things and rub him roughly enough that Q would squirm with pain. Jaggi is indulgent, fond, and François looks at him with big adoring eyes. And yet…Q has power over Bond, as much as Bond does over him: he builds his tech, his weapons, monitors him and guides him. He could literally kill Bond if he wanted to. Jaggi and François are playacting to some extent, Q knows that, following the erotic script of the wealthy older man and his brainless and beautiful young lover; but even if François is more in control than he appears, he’d guess that if Jaggi decided he was done with François, the younger man would be out on his heels without a safety net.

“He’s pretty like this, isn’t he?” Jaggi asks Q. Q realizes he’s been staring. He nods, and François tips his head back, panting.

“Quentin is a terror before he’s eaten,” Bond says conversationally, piling his plate with eggs and sausages and tomatoes. Q glares at Bond. “See what I mean?”

“I’m close, I’m close,” François gasps out.

“Oh, good boy,” Jaggi says. “Get it ready, then.”

François scrambles with his hand on the table and picks up a small porcelain bowl. He positions it just below his cock, moaning, his breathing accelerating. Jaggi strokes him once, twice, three times, and he cries out. His come shoots into the bowl, thick and fast enough to make some spatter out over the edges.

“All right, darling,” says Jaggi soothingly, stroking François’ damp curls. “All right. Are you ready?”

François takes several gulping breaths and then nods. Jaggi takes the bowl and raises it to François’ lips. Obediently, Francois sticks out his tongue and laps it up.

“He needs his breakfast, too,” Jaggi explains.

Q swallows, quite hot all of a sudden. Bond shoots him an amused, assessing look.

“Very practical,” says Bond.

“Very.”

François finishes licking the bowl clean and leans back against Jaggi, exhausted. He smiles, shyly but guilelessly, at Bond and Q. Jaggi strokes his lover’s chest beneath his gaping-open robe, then bends to kiss his neck. François stretches accommodatingly, baring as much skin as he can, and Jaggi makes a noise in his throat and sucks. When he raises his head, there’s a red-purple mark on François’ neck and Jaggi is panting slightly.

“Françie,” he says breathlessly, “bunny…”

“Yes, yes.”

“Ludi wants…”

“Yes.”

“Ludi wants his breakfast, now. Now.”

“Go ahead.” François is biting his lip, cheeks pink, eyes still orgasm-glazed. “You can, Ludi.”

Bond and Q watch as Jaggi groans and reaches towards the table. He picks up a clean, sharp knife.

Q swallows hard.

François holds out his arm. It is pale and smooth and slender. Jaggi puts the flat of the knife against his skin, resting it on his upper arm.

Q doesn’t need to look at Bond to know that he is watching with laser-sharp focus. He can feel Bond’s body next to him, warm, tense and coiled.

François breathes, waiting, head titled back like an old oil portrait. He is the very picture of surrender.

Jaggi presses the flat of the knife harder against François’ arm. Slowly, eyes fixed on the blade, he rotates it, digging the tip into François’ skin. Slowly, slowly, he presses down.

François bites back a cry. The knife knicks his arm, suddenly breaking the skin, and Jaggi pulls it up, maybe half an inch, along François’ arm. Then he releases the pressure and lets the knife clatter to the table.

“Oh, my dear,” he breathes. He bends his head and licks François’ arm, a wet stripe up through the oozing blood of the cut he has just made. He puts his lips over the wound and, for perhaps two seconds, sucks hard.

François cries out. Jaggi pulls away. His lips are tinged with blood.

“God,” he gasps out. “Oh.” He takes deep gulping breaths, and then, finally getting himself back under control, looks up at Bond and smiles. There is blood on his teeth.

“You want to join me?” He picks up the knife and holds it out to Bond. “Your Quentin must taste absolutely delightful.”

Q’s heart stops. He stares at the knife, its edge spattered with red dots of François’ blood. His skin prickles and he suppresses a shudder. He thinks—he hopes—he knows Bond can feel it, can feel his sudden frozen resistance, but…

But it is what’s right for the mission.

“No, thank you,” Bond says. Q, on the verge of extending his arm in acquiescence despite his aversion, stops cold. “Alas, Quentin’s a bit iffy about blood. And as I said, he’s rather a terror before breakfast.”

“I see,” says Jaggi. For a moment, he and Bond lock eyes. Jaggi sets the knife down reluctantly. “Well, that’s too bad.” An awkward pause. “Don’t let me stop you, then. Please, eat. Bunny, let’s get your cut cleaned up, shall we?”

Bond’s refusal puts a damper on the atmosphere. Jaggi is courteous when he returns from dressing François’ wound, but Q can tell he’s disappointed. After breakfast Bond requests a tour around the grounds; when François begs off, Q does too, hoping he can use this as an opportunity to wheedle some information out of the young man. Maybe make up for whatever ground they’ve just, for some reason, lost.

“Come,” says François, “we’ll go to the sunroom.”

The sunroom has huge glass windows in three of its walls, and a couple of skylights overhead. It’s full of ferns and leafy plants, as well as an assortment of chairs and chaise lounges. François, changed from his silk robe to a pair of white linen shorts and a low-necked green shirt, stretches out on one of the chaise lounges, kicking off his canvas shoes.

“It’s beautiful,” Q says, looking around at the sun-drenched stone floors. “The whole house is beautiful.”

“Yes,” says François. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it. “It is.”

Q watches him smoke for a minute. He’s draped on the couch with one knee up, the other leg dangling on the floor, smoking beautifully, holding the cigarette in a delicately arched wrist. It’s the kind of posing Q would have expected he’d drop with Jaggi out of the room. Maybe it’s for Q’s benefit. Maybe it’s habit.

“Want a cigarette?” François asks. “Sorry, I should have offered.”

“No,” says Q, then regrets it—he doesn’t smoke, but cigarettes breed quick and easy intimacy. “Well, actually…” He throws a quick glance at the door. “Yes, all right. Just don’t tell James.”

François smiles. “He doesn’t like it?”

Q takes the cigarette and holds it out for François to light. “Says it makes my breath stink.”

“I’ve got mints, don’t worry.”

“Ah, perfect.” Q takes a drag, feeling the benign conspiracy wending them closer together. “Mind you, he smokes plenty himself.”

“They get away with things, don’t they?”

Q can’t quite read his tone. He hesitates, wanting to probe, not sure how best to do it. “Yes,” he says after a moment. “They do.”

François brings the cigarette to his lips, then breathes out an elegant cloud of smoke. His golden curls shine in the sun beaming through the big glass panes. His long slim legs are downed with the lightest cover of pale hair. He looks very young.

“Why do you do it?” The words come out of Q’s mouth on an impulse. “Live like this, with Jaggi. Is it really what you want?”

François looks at him. For a moment, he seems startled. Then he tilts his head at Q.

“It’s not usually like this for you, is it?” he asks. “You and James. You don’t just do what he says all the time, do you?”

Slowly, afraid he’s about to mess everything up, Q shakes his head. “No. We…live separate lives, really. When he has time, when I have time, we…do this. This thing. It’s—” Q hesitates. “It’s not quite just a game, but…” He shakes his head. “No. It’s not a game. But it isn’t all the time.”

François nods. Smoke curls from the tip of his cigarette. “Is it what you want?”

Q exhales. “Yes,” he admits. “Yes, it is.” He hesitates. “Is this…what you want?”

“It’s worth it,” François says simply. “I lived in a shithole on the outskirts of Paris before this. My mother, grandfather, grandmother, five younger siblings. Met Ludi outside a sweet shop I used to take my little sister to so she could look at the window displays. He bought a chocolate for her. And one for me.” Francois smiles a little. “He’s a spoiled, self-absorbed man, and rather a cad, but he treats me well. I’m fond of him.” He shrugs. “I’m hardly the first young man who’s been in this position with him. But I hope to be the last.”

Q absorbs this all quietly. He can’t say he doesn’t, in many ways, understand where François is coming from. At least, he understands why one might choose a relationship that looks, on the face of it, less than ideal. Less than what one might be expected to settle for.

“He…” Q pauses again, searching for the right words. This is more difficult than he’d expected. Bond does it so smoothly, so easily. “He’s…a bit of a cad?”

François smiles wryly. “Not to me. You know. He has a…reputation.”

“Ah,” says Q, pulse quickening. “I mean, he’s certainly hinted at…some things.”

A laugh. “He only talks around things, just to impress people. He’s done much worse, I can tell you that.”

“Yeah?” Q tries not to sound overly interested. Tries to sound gossipy. Two young men, talking about their dangerous older boyfriends. “What kinds of things?”

François shakes his head. “I don’t know. No, honestly—that’s the one thing I’ve promised myself. I won’t get tied up in any of it, any of his dealings, his schemes. I don’t even want to know.”

“Oh,” Q says, heart sinking. “He doesn’t try to talk to you about them?”

“I don’t let him. He can do whatever he wants to me—well, you’ve seen—but I don’t let him tell me about what he does when I’m not there. I may not be especially intelligent, but I’m smart enough to know that that’s safer for me.”

Q believes him. Damn it, he believes him. His respect for François increases. It would be so easy to feign admiration for his lover’s illicit dealings, the smuggling, the gambling, the seedy connections and underground influences. So easy to actually admire them for real, if one were a particular sort of stupid. But François isn’t that.

Q leans back in his chair, taking a pull from his forgotten cigarette. “Smart,” he says. “That’s very smart.”

François smiles. “He doesn’t mind, anyway,” he says, flicking ash onto a little plate on a side table. “I more than make up for it.”

That, Q thinks, is also very much the truth.

That night is their last evening at Jaggi’s mansion. Q hasn’t gotten a chance to talk to Bond alone since that morning, but he thinks things are going well. Jaggi has resumed his good humor, enjoying Bond’s war stories as he drinks a large glass of gin and tonic in the sitting room after dinner, François sitting at his feet.

“Ludovic,” says Bond, sipping his whiskey, “I want to thank you. You’ve been so hospitable, these last few days.”

“Oh, it’s been my pleasure. Ours,” says Jaggi, squeezing the back of François’ neck. François nods and smiles.

“I thought, our last night…” Bond’s eyes gleam. Something in his voice makes Q more alert. “I’d like to thank you.” He reaches out and puts a hand on Q’s shoulder. “Q’s very accommodating. If you’d like…”

Jaggi licks his lips. “Yes?”

“If you’d like to fuck him,” Bond says, “you’re more than welcome.”

Q breathes in through his nose and gives Jaggi what he hopes is a sweetly shy but obliging smile. His pulse flutters. It isn’t as if he hadn’t seen this coming. Isn’t as if he hadn’t been expecting it from the start. Bond has made it clear that he doesn’t want Q sleeping with other people, but Q knows that doesn’t apply to work. And it’s not as if Bond won’t be right here, watching the other man fuck him.

“So generous,” says Jaggi. He leans forward and strokes his hand along Q’s cheek. Then he sits back. “But I’m afraid my Françie just gets so jealous.” He kisses the top of François’ head. “My darling,” he says to the young man, “would you like to play with Quentin for a bit instead? It would make me and Mr. Bond very happy.”

Startled, Q looks at François. François looks back at him, a tiny smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth. He, Q realizes, knew this was coming.

“Yes, please,” François says. And to his surprise, Q flushes hot.

Bond lets out a little laugh. “Well, then. A treat for us both. Go on, Quentin dear. Don’t be shy.”

“Take off our clothes?” François asks Q, the flutter in his voice aimed at Jaggi. “It’ll be better that way.”

Q nods. Silently, a little clumsily, they both strip. Q feels Bond’s eyes on him as he kneels on the carpet, facing the beautiful long-lashed boy with a ducking grin.

“Go on, my sweet,” Jaggi says softly. François reaches out and cups Q’s face. He kisses him. His lips are soft, and so is his skin, well-tended to, no doubt, with expensive creams and serums; Q kisses back, feeling oddly fumbling. François runs his tongue along Q’s lips, pokes it between them, wiggles his way gently in, opens Q’s mouth and sinks inside. Q’s skin is running hot and cold, near to fire and ice where Bond’s gaze bores into him from behind.

They kiss like teenagers, Q’s face in François’ hands, Q’s arms around his waist. François makes soft little noises as he kisses, little wanting noises, and their bare chests press together, their knees bumping, awkward and off-balance until Q slides forward, open legs slotting in on either side of François’. He runs his palm down François’ side, his back, down to the top of his arse, feeling the rounded cheek warm and smooth before his fingers meet the floor; François’ hands rove over his body, too, snaking up between them to rub at Q’s nipples, then down to press flat against his belly; their lovers watch them, Jaggi’s breathing beginning to pick up, Bond’s still steady and even. Q’s cock is stirring, interested, though he can’t shake the feeling that all of him is becoming aroused, erect, the hairs on his arms, his skin, each bit of him that touches the warm flush of François’ body. He catches his breath a little, letting François mouth at his ear, and then they are kissing again.

He makes a move, then another, towards something more; slides his hand along François’ crack, pushes his hardening cock against the other man’s, but each time François moves fluidly onto the next thing, the next caress, the next juxtaposition of hand and thigh, chest and shoulder, mouth and neck; he feels so pliant, so ready, that it takes Q a little while to understand that he is steering away from any escalation. Intrigued, a little stymied, Q resumes kissing; François feels like he is ready to kiss forever, to kiss all night long. Once François realizes Q has caught on, he leans forward, gentling Q down onto his back, and settles in above him, long legs tangling in Q’s, and kisses him some more.

They roll around on the floor, limbs moving against each other, elbows and knees and feet and hands, hard cocks no more or less likely to brush against each other than any other body part, no more or less neglected or attended to; Q feels lightheaded with it, the endlessness of it, or maybe it’s just the lack of breathing he’s doing, his mouth pressed against François’.

“What a picture,” Jaggi sighs softly from his chair.

“It is indeed,” Bond replies.

It could be half an hour or an hour or two hours later when, lips puffy and skin tender from the carpet, François and Q drift slowly apart. Q’s mind feels strange and detached as he smiles hazily at François.

“Well,” Jaggi says with an exhale. “My dear boys. What a show.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Bond says to Jaggi.

“Same to you, James. Same to you.”

Bond stands, bending over and smoothing back Q’s damp hair. “All right, my dear,” he says, “you look entirely punchdrunk. Time for bed.”

“Oh,” says Jaggi, “must it be? Already?”

“I was thinking,” says Bond, helping Q to his feet, “that we’d send the children off to bed early.”

“Ahh.” Jaggi looks at François. “Does that sound good to you, Françie?”

François nods.

“Go on then,” Bond says to Q. He hands him his rumpled clothes. “Off to bed. I’ll see you in a bit.” A glimmer in his eye: sardonic, cold: just for Q. “Let the grownups talk.”

Q is asleep when Bond comes to bed. He rolls over when the weight of the other man hits the mattress and blinks at him blearily.

“Did he talk?” he asks.

“Oh, yes,” says Bond, voice satisfied. “He talked.”

Thick forests, rocky hills, green fields. Bond, again seated on the lower bunk of the train’s sleeping car.

“A success,” he says. “Well done, Q.”

Q looks at him. After a moment, he nods. “Thanks.”

The train rattles on, passing an old abandoned factory. Q watches the concrete ruin go by, then says to Bond, “There’s something I don’t understand.”

Bond watches him, eyes suddenly guarded.

“You didn’t cut me,” Q says. “It would have been better for the mission. But you didn’t. Why?”

Bond is silent.

“Is it because you knew I didn’t want you to?”

A pause. “Yes,” Bond says shortly.

“And did you know why I didn’t want you to?”

Bond says, “The knife wasn’t clean. It had François’ blood on it.”

Q exhales. “That’s right. But…”

“But?”

“I still don’t understand.” Q looks at his hands. “You do risky things for missions all the time. You’d have done it to yourself if Jaggi had asked. And there wouldn’t have been any negative consequences for you or for the mission if you’d cut me. Only for me.”

Bond scoffs. “Really? It would be a pretty big impediment to me fucking you whenever I want if you were infected with some boy’s various diseases.”

Q shakes his head. “You don’t really think he’s infected with anything, though. It’s unlikely Jaggi wouldn’t have him tested regularly, wouldn’t protect himself. The risk was low, as far as risks go. It was still too high by my calculations, but surely not by yours.”

Bond has gone quite still. He is most dangerous when he is quite still, like a jaguar readying itself to pounce.

“What’s your point, Q?”

Q lets out a breath. “Listen. I know you hate to talk about these things. But I need to know. I need to understand. So.” He steps closer to Bond, then kneels at his feet. He tilts his head up, baring his neck. “Do what you need to do. But explain something to me. You told me once you don’t feel things like normal people. That you wouldn’t know when to stop if I didn’t tell you. But that’s not true, is it? Your job depends on you being able to read people. You can tell when you go too far.”

Bond doesn’t move. Q remains as he is, neck exposed.

“All right,” says Bond quietly. “Fair enough.”

“So?”

“Just because I can tell when I’ve gone too far doesn’t mean I care. It doesn’t mean I’ll stop.”

“But,” Q presses, pulse beating in his ears, “you did stop.”

Bond is silent for a moment. “I seem to…” He hesitates. Q holds his breath. “I don’t feel things like normal people, no. But I can act as though I do. If I want to. I don’t usually want to. In this case, between you and I, there is…some attachment.”

He says the word with difficulty, as if it is not the most clinical, most emotionally distant way he could have explained his feelings for Q. But Q feels it all the same, a rush of shock and fear and something else straight down his spine.

“All that devotion,” he says quietly, looking now at Bond’s knees, “all that blind and stupid devotion I put on for Jaggi this weekend. It wasn’t all for show.”

Bond exhales above him. “Q.”

Q kisses Bond’s knee. “Hand on my neck?” he asks, looking up.

Bond puts his hand around Q’s neck. Q sinks into it, airways narrowing.

“Hit me?”

Bond slaps him. The blow feels bright and clear on his cheek, stinging like cold spring water.

“I can’t give you…” Bond starts, and Q hushes him.

“Stop,” he says. “I know. I know.” He breathes in. “You’ve said it before, Bond. I’m not exactly the kind of person who…” He shakes his head. “The things you can’t give me. I don’t want them.”

Bond slides a finger up from Q’s neck, slips it into his mouth. Q sucks.

“All right,” says Bond. He sounds, for the first time since Q has known him, just a little bit helpless. “All right, Q.”

Q sucks on Bond’s finger, and closes his eyes.


End file.
